


Verdigris

by Polly_Lynn



Category: Castle
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Jealousy, Partners to Lovers, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 19:10:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10905639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: Kate takes her time. A slow cross of the bullpen, because she's off kilter. The encounter with Penny has her skipping a beat. Needing a second to gather herself again, but she doesn't really have one.





	Verdigris

**Author's Note:**

> “He’s Dead, She’s Dead” (3 x 02) insert. One-shot.

“The lovesick, 

the betrayed, 

and the jealous 

all smell alike.”

— Colette

 

* * *

 

It's a strange morning. With Castle out, she's behind on her caffeine schedule. She'd feel bad for even thinking of it like that, given everything, but the knot throbbing just between her eyebrows is a jerk, apparently. 

She pushes it aside, headache, concern for Martha—for Castle, who'd sounded beyond shaken—and all the rest. She needs her game face on for Cody Donnelly, and she doesn't love the thought of needing something from him. A sleazy reality TV producer. She picks his voice  out here and there on the low-quality video. He's egging Steve Adams on, and she's just about decided that Mr. Donnelly probably deserves a caffeine-deprived Beckett when she spies Penny Marchand stepping off the elevator. 

The boys kill the video, but Kate hustles her off anyway. Away from the board with its grisly photos and far too many question marks. She shuts the conference room door reluctantly. She's uncomfortable with this woman. A suddenly motherless daughter like she was once. A grieving family member, and she usually has no trouble summoning all the sympathy in the world for that. 

She has no trouble now.  Not with sympathy, but Penny Marchand unnerves her. Her staunch, childlike belief in her mother's otherworldly gifts. Her breathless seriousness as she goes on about . . . something. A dream. A man. A life saved. Alexander. She goes on with bright-eyed conviction, and all Kate wants is to be done with her. To get on with the case, but all of a sudden there's hugging. Intense. Tight. _Lingering,_ and Kate does her level best not to flinch. She’s not a hugger. She’s just . . . not. 

Ultimately, Penny is all short attention span, though. It feels like forever, but it can't be more than a breath or two before the young woman is spinning off and away, thanking Kate as she goes. Thanking her for some strange reason of her own, and then it’s on to Cody Donnelly. 

Kate takes her time. A slow cross of the bullpen, because she's off kilter. The encounter with Penny has her skipping a beat. Needing a second to gather herself again, but she doesn't really have one. She jerks the handle on the interrogation room door. She gets on with it. 

And Castle’s there.  

There's no reason he shouldn't be. It's technically just an interview, and there's no reason Castle wouldn't have strolled in and made himself at home. Except she'd thought the two of them would  have a moment. A bare minute where she wouldn't quite ask about Chet. About Martha. A bare minute where he wouldn't quite answer, but they'd share a sideways smile, and they'd both know. That she cares. That he’s grateful. They’d _kno_ w, even if neither of them would dream of saying it.   

She thought they'd have a moment, but he's here, and her morning goes from strange to stranger. 

Donnelly has an interesting tale to tell. It’s a grudging admission for her, something to be excited about for Castle, but they're both on it. She glances his way as she more or less kisses Steve Adams goodbye as a suspect. But he's more than glancing at her. He’s staring. 

Not literally. Not at all. He’s focused on Donnelly. He’s pulling the story from him. The smug man with the unlikely-sounding accent. Castle plays the rapt audience. He doesn't really have to work at it. Donnelly loves the sound of his own voice. Castle nods and prompts. He gets the story,  but all the while, his attention—his absolute focus—is fixed on her. He's crowding her without moving a millimeter closer. Leaning in, even though he's upright in his chair, his head cocked the opposite direction.

She thinks of Penny for no reason at all. Of claustrophobia and guilt interrupted, however briefly, by curiosity. The allure of . . . more. A larger world around the sharp planes of her own, and she wants, perversely, to tell him about it, even though he’ll gloat. He’ll be smug and insufferable and delighted. She’ll roll her eyes, and somehow it’ll set her to rights. 

She gathers up her things. Pen and pad and the leather folder that makes for good theater. She shoulders the door open and steps into the hallway, and Castle is there. 

He’s _right_ there, having ventured far deeper into her personal space than he’s dared since he’s been back. It messes with her head on top of everything. Memory strikes her. Rapid-fire images and more. 

The weight of his palm on her shoulder blade. Blood on her hands as she sinks back on her heels into his not-quite-embrace over Dick Coonan’s body. 

His shoulder brushing hers and the heat of a sidelong glance. _I was serious about this weekend._

It _messes_ with her. She opens her mouth to object. Twists her shoulders to put some kind of space between them, but he has hold of her lapel. 

“You’re wearing perfume.” He worries the dark fabric in his fingers, his brow furrowing. “Patchouli?” 

“Patchouli?” she echoes, confused. She frowns back at him. “I am _not_ wear—“ 

“—lipstick.” 

His fingers brush the skin just above her collar bone. It’s electric. Dangerous. He jerks his hand back. She stiffens. Tries to step back, but the wall is right there. They stare at one another, wide eyed. 

“Beckett, is that _lipstick_?” 

His face is an absolute picture. Shock. Curiosity. Dismay, and another memory hits her. His ex-wife’s glossy-lipped smile. Her arm around his waist and his around hers.

“Penny,” she says cooly. She straightens the lines of her jacket. Puts some distance between them without moving an inch. “She was here.” 

“Here _kissing_ you?” It’s too loud. There’s no one around, but his voice is _way_ too loud. 

“Hugging me,” she snaps. She’s angry now, or she’d like to be. She’d like the slick surface of fury, so she plays at it. She recalls Sunday morning sunlight and the sticky sweetness of the bear claw clinging to her skin. The satisfaction of cramming it in his mouth. Shutting him up for once. “What’s the matter, Castle? You jealous? I thought you’d just join in.” 

He doesn’t rise to the bait, though. Doesn’t even seem to hear her at first, lost as he is in staring at the faint, shimmering smear of color on his fingertips. 

“Jealous.” 

It’s to himself. Aloud, but absolutely not meant for her ears. His head snaps up. His cheeks flush dark when he realizes she’s heard. That she must have heard. It stretches out—an unbearably awkward moment neither of them can seem to shatter. 

“Coffee,” he says finally. “You must need . . .” 

“Coffee. Yeah.” She gives him a sharp nod. A weak smile though neither is convincing. “I’m behind.” 

He nods back. Smiles back. Unconvincing. She turns on her heel. He turns on his. They strike out in opposite directions. For the board. For the break room. 

The word hangs over them. though. Her thumb swipes at the skin just above her collar bone. She plucks at the cascading fabric of her shirt, her stomach rolling at the scent that wafts up from it, nearly as heavy as the word itself. Nearly as heavy. 

_Jealous._

**Author's Note:**

> When this came up on my gym re-watch, I was struck by how miserably uncomfortable Kate looks when Penny hugs her. Which then led to the memory of patchouli abuse by someone in my population genetics class. And then dumbness.


End file.
